


times like these (try men's souls)

by wiildflowers



Category: 18th Century CE RPF
Genre: Gen, Skeletons In The Closet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2019-05-19 05:26:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14867477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wiildflowers/pseuds/wiildflowers
Summary: John had grown to love the way the mornings smelled during battle, grown to love the whisperings of martyrs long-gone echoing in his ears. But maybe this was enough, for now.





	times like these (try men's souls)

Alexander Hamilton, with his wild hair and wilder eyes, was seated at his makeshift desk, writing away. But really, when wasn't he?

John's eyes were wandering again, and he hated it. He hated every thought, every reminder of what he had been running away from. Of who he had been running away from. He let his eyes flutter closed for just a few moments, the sound of pen against paper filling the room as he tried to stop thinking about the man guiding it. As he tried to forget about everything, even if it was for just a few moments.

 (It didn't work.)

 

_He punches. Quick, feather-light hands jab at anything he can reach. He is full of passion, of rage, of uncontrollable anger and nothing else._

_He is a symphony of sadness and bruised knuckles. He itches to fight, to stand up for what he believes in. He longs for freedom, and  the light before him grows blinding. Yellow rays pierce through the wool over his eyes, stupefying him. He had grown so used to the cool shade of his father's shadow, but that was gone now._

 

Cerulean eyes open once more as the soldier realizes that the scratching of pen on paper is no longer audible; and that Alexander is no longer sitting at the makeshift desk stained with spilled ink and hope.

No, Alexander is sitting next to him, a hand reaching out towards John's forehead with a sort of gentle care. He wasn't finished writing, it was made obvious by the look in his eyes. They were aflame, they always were, with a sort of passion John had never seen before he had met Alexander. Feather-light hands brushed against his forehead; ink-stained fingers colliding with a troubled mind in a quiet explosion of emotion. He needn't say a thing.

 

_The smell of ink and hope lingered over the tent, as it always did. The silence was deafening, and Alexander's hands were shaking like leaves. The boy, not yet a man, took them gently, and Alexander, surprisingly, let him._

_(Their eyes met in a storm of emotions, and the boy found himself under Alexander's sheets that night, arms wrapped gently around him, eyes closed tight. John didn't sleep that evening, the light was as blinding as the fire had been raging deep inside Alexander's eyes. John didn't sleep that evening, but he knew that Alexander did.)_

 

Before, of course, hastily untangling himself from the sheets in the morning. "I'm sorry," both had murmured, voices ghosting across pale skin, John somehow choking on words he couldn't get past his lips. Why must everything be so complicated?

"You need to rest," a concerned voice cut through John's thoughts like a knife, and a bitter laugh escaped his lips at it.

"That makes two of us, my friend," despite himself, he found himself leaning into Alexander's touch, ink-stained fingertips trailing idly down his face, ending up under a freckled jaw. Before he knew it, his head was being lifted up, eyes meeting with Alexander's in yet another collision of fire.

"You need to rest," was Alexander's only reply, surprisingly patient. John knew that tone, and he knew that look in the male's eyes. He would be resting soon, whether he opposed it or not. He had might as well enjoy the flames, give into the pure heat that seemed to radiate from the male before him.

 

With that, John found himself nodding ever so slightly, and felt all of his resolve melt away in the fiery passion in Alexander's eyes. The fire never calmed, and neither did the passion, although John found he had always been better at starting fires than putting them out.

(Yes, John had grown to love the way the mornings smelled during battle, grown to love the whisperings of martyrs long-gone echoing in his ears.)

 

There was a warm body next to him, and he couldn't help but think that maybe, just maybe, the passion was worth it if the fire burned so nicely. If his bruised knuckles stung so when he lashed out in defense of what he believed in.

_(The boy is not yet a man. There are no covenants between boys and gods, and the light is burning. The burn soothes, however, and his skin sizzles pleasantly. There is ichor pouring from his veins, sullying the ground, and he is falling, crashing to his doom, burnt but smiling. The light dims, then fades away.)_

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this (roughly) two years ago, and it has gone through a ridiculous amount of editing, but I thought "hey, why not post it?" so it's here now! I'm still not sure of how I feel about it, but I hope you enjoyed. The title is (paraphrased) from Thomas Paine's [The American Crisis](https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/175410-these-are-the-times-that-try-men-s-souls-the-summer), because I just had to make that reference. Any feedback is greatly appreciated!


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